Hidden Riches

Disgusted, DiCarlo shoved Ashworth over with the toe of his shoe. In the spill of the upstairs light, he could see the flow of blood, the open staring eyes. Fury had him kicking the body twice before he pulled himself back.
    He was out the rear door and half a block away when he heard the sound of sirens.
     
    Finley was switching channels on several of his television screens when the call came through.
    “DiCarlo on line two, Mr. Finley.”
    “Put him through.” After he’d switched the phone to speaker, Finley said, “You have news for me?”
    “Yes. Yes, sir. I have the porcelain figurine with me, Mr. Finley, as well as a list locating all the other merchandise.” DiCarlo spoke from his car phone, and kept his speed to a law-abiding fifty-five on his way back to Dulles International.
    Finley waited a beat. “Explain.”
    DiCarlo began with Porter, pausing every few sentences to be certain Finley wanted him to continue. “I’d be happy to fax the list to you as soon as I reach the airport, Mr. Finley.”
    “Yes, do that. You sound a bit . . . uneasy, Mr. DiCarlo.”
    “Well, actually, sir, there was a bit of a problem in recovering the figurine. An antique dealer in Front Royal had purchased it. His shop was closed when I arrived, and knowing that you wanted results quickly, I broke in to retrieve it. The dealer was upstairs. There was an accident, Mr. Finley. He’s dead.”
    “I see.” Finley examined his nails. “So I assume you took care of this Porter.”
    “Took care of?”
    “He can link you to the . . . accident, correct? And a link to you, Mr. DiCarlo, is a link to me. I suggest you snap the link quickly, finally.”
    “I’m—I’m on my way to the airport.”
    “Then you’ll have to turn around and go back, won’t you? Don’t bother with that fax. After you’ve finished tidying up in Virginia, I’ll expect you here, with the figurine. We’ll discuss the next steps.”
    “You want me in California? Mr. Finley—”
    “By noon, Mr. DiCarlo. We’ll be closing early tomorrow. The holidays, you know. Contact Winesap with your flight information. You’ll be met.”
    “Yes, sir.” DiCarlo broke the connection and headed for the first exit ramp. He hoped to God Porter was still in his office and well drunk so that he could put a bullet in the man’s brain with little fuss.
    If he didn’t get this whole mess straightened out soon, he’d never make it home for Christmas dinner.
     
    “Really, Andrew, really, there’s no need for you to walk me up.” With the self-defense only a woman who’d been bored beyond redemption could possibly understand, Dora body-blocked the stairway. Just let me get inside, she thought, behind a locked door. Then she could beat her head against the wall in private.
    Andrew Dawd, a CPA who considered bundling funds into tax shelters the height of intrigue, gave one of his hearty laughs and pinched her cheek. “Now, Dora, mymother taught me to always see the girl to her door.”
    “Well, Mama’s not here,” Dora pointed out, and inched up the steps. “And it’s late.”
    “Late? It’s not even eleven. You’re not going to send me off without a cup of coffee, are you?” He flashed the white teeth that his doting mama had spent thousands to have straightened. “You know you make the best coffee in Philadelphia.”
    “It’s a gift.” She was searching for some polite way to refuse when the outside door slammed open, slammed shut.
    Jed strode down the hall, his hands balled into the pockets of his scarred leather bomber jacket. It was left unsnapped to the wind over a sweatshirt and torn jeans. His hair was windblown, his face unshaven—which suited the surly look in his eye.
    Dora had to wonder why, at that moment, she preferred Jed’s dangerous look to the three-piece-suited, buffed and polished accountant beside her. The lack, she decided, was most certainly in her.
    “Skimmerhorn.”
    Jed summed up Dora’s date with one brief glance as he fit his key into his lock. “Conroy,” he said. With that as greeting and farewell, he slipped inside and closed the door.
    “Your new tenant?” Andrew’s dark, well-groomed eyebrows rose into the high forehead his mother assured him was a sign of intelligence, and not male-pattern baldness.
    “Yes.” Dora sighed and caught a whiff of Andrew’s Halston for Men, and the clashing, wild-animal scent Jed had left stirring in the air. Since she’d missed her chance to make excuses, she